


LEVEE (AKA Eight Alternate Takes on WHIPLASH)

by antineutrinos



Category: The Yogscast
Genre: Aliens, Alternate Ending, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Bad Poetry, Blood and Violence, Character Death, Friendship/Love, Gen, Happy Ending, M/M, XCOM - freeform, XCOM AU, lmao writing aus for my own au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-20
Updated: 2018-10-20
Packaged: 2019-08-04 23:10:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,446
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16356077
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antineutrinos/pseuds/antineutrinos
Summary: How else could it have ended?





	LEVEE (AKA Eight Alternate Takes on WHIPLASH)

**Author's Note:**

> bet you thought you saw the last of me and this au, huh
> 
> I was in a serious Writing Slump after WHIPLASH because who wouldn't be but I started writing again and UGH it feels good. I tried to do 'eight alternate endings in eight alternate styles', hence the poetry (if you could call it that). HOWEVER I don't really think I really achieved it but I guess you're the judge of that. Anyway.
> 
> If you really want the whole nine yards, listen to the minecraft soundtrack as you're reading because I enjoyed doing it and maybe you will too.
> 
> Also for the love of GOD please comment I am in a desperate attention deficit over here. how am I supposed to MANAGE without CONSTANT APPRECIATION AND COMMENTS from my oh-so-loyal READERS? 
> 
> also— warning for some pretty heavy death stuff at the beginning, moderate death stuff everywhere else. 
> 
> enjoy the story thanks for reading xxx

**#1**

**THERE IS NO HANDSOME PRINCE TO RESCUE YOU THIS TIME**

 

"Do not ask questions, Mr. Colander. Do whatever you would do to another human to give them Pleasure. Do these things to me. Do them to #100092. I will unlock your handcuffs and leave. Do you accept my proposal?" 

 

Lewis cannot believe what he is hearing. What does the sectoid even want? What does ‘pleasure’ entail? Sure, it would be a different story if this was a human making such a proposal. Well, if that were the case, at least the proposal would be easy to understand. But... the sectoid could want anything, and Lewis does not know how far the sectoid wants to go and how far he himself is willing to go. 

 

They stretch out into a silence, the sectoid standing too close for comfort. It blinks slowly, but its eyelid is transparent and Lewis watches with a sick fascination. He swallows. 

 

“Your answer, Colander. I will not ask again.” 

 

It's as if Lewis’ brain turned to static, like a radio tuned to the wrong frequency. His mind is blank. Thoughts won’t come. He doesn’t know what to say. The sectoid just watches, its lungs making that fierce rattling noise as it breathes. 

 

It’s the thought of going down in history as the man— the commander— who had sex with an alien that makes Lewis blurt out the word “No.” The sectoid cocks its head, as if it doesn’t understand, and Lewis is forced to continue. “No, I. I decline your... your proposal.” Lewis wishes he could wipe the sweat from the back of his neck, because it’s beginning to drip down his shirt, but he can’t. He is, after all, conveniently handcuffed. Finest Martian adamantium, too. 

 

Lewis’ static-filled mind is wrought with concern. What if he made the wrong decision? Lewis wonders if he should regret what he said. 

 

The sectoid goes stiff, almost sighing. “Very well,” it rasps. It sounds distant. Colder than before. Maybe Lewis offended it. Hurt its feelings. He feels like scoffing, but he has to remind himself he could die any minute. The laughter dies instantly. 

 

Lewis watches, eyes wide, as the alien turns and walks. A door to the left slides open without a sound. The sectoid is gone. Lewis is alone. He breathes a sigh, exhaling relief. He rattles the handcuffs. They are still very much locked and definitely made of metal. No way of getting out of those at the minute. Lewis leans his head back and shuts his eyes. 

 

He reassesses the situation. A rescue mission is probably still as unlikely as it was twenty minutes ago. The only thing that has changed is the sectoid, and while it’s hard to read an alien, it looks like Lewis thoroughly fucked up his chance there. Now his sectoid protector probably hates him and while Lewis had a golden ticket opportunity to get out of this godforsaken place, he turned it down because of his moral principles. Oh, how terrible it is to be human. 

 

One thing occurs to him. There is a constant drone, a hum that reverberates through everything. Lewis had assumed they were in a base somewhere. But that sound means an engine. And an engine means they’re moving. 

 

Lewis’ heart sinks. He can feel the weight of anxiety in his chest. If they are moving, then it is safe to assume they’re moving away from the XCOM base. With every passing second, they get farther away. With every passing second, the chance of a rescue mission gets slimmer. 

 

The door #100092 left through opens with a small swish, and two sectoids walk in. One walks with the gait of a being who has been mortally rejected. Lewis assumes it’s #100092, although he can’t tell because both sectoids are the same. Carbon copies. They talk to each other in deep guttural sounds that sound more like a cat coughing up a hairball than a language. Lewis tries his best to pretend his heartbeat doesn’t spike at the sight of them. 

 

He knows they’re talking about him. One of them, presumably #100092, keeps giving Lewis sideways looks. It makes Lewis uncomfortable, to say the least. He doesn’t know what to do. He feels as if he’s trembling, but he can’t tell. 

 

They walk over to him with a strange sense of purpose. One unlocks the handcuffs. Lewis can't help it— he gasps. Are they letting him go? Hardly. Seems unlikely. Then what’s going on? 

 

They manhandle him. Lewis tries to breathe, he does, but the anxiety is rising and he swears there’s something pressing down on his chest but there isn’t, he was told he would either sink or swim, this is it, he’s sinking, he’s sinking— 

 

Lewis opens his eyes, gasping and heaving. He must've blacked out. He can hear his heartbeat in his ears and eyes and chest and everywhere; fast and erratic. Frantic. He’s being dragged. The handcuffs are back on. He doesn’t know where they’re going. He can’t do anything. He struggles. He screams. The aliens just grip him harder and pull him faster. 

 

They stop, eventually. Lewis tries to calm himself; he can breathe easier now, but it’s ragged and rasping. They drop him on the floor. Lewis thinks of getting up. He could run away, surely. But where would he go? There is nowhere to go. 

 

He realizes they just moved to the back of the room Lewis was kept in. The storage room. With the big vats of cryogenic iridescent goo. It glows bright blue, casting everyone and everything in cyan. Why is the light so bright? Lewis looks. They’re next to one of the vats. That explains it. Lewis lies his head against the floor, which is cool against his boiling skin, and he tries his best to breathe. 

 

It comes to him suddenly. He’s going in the vat. Into the cryogenic liquid. That’s what they’re doing with him. 

 

Lewis doesn’t pay attention to how it happens, although he does seem to move as if time has slowed. But it hasn’t. He’s thrown in the top of the vat. He counts his heartbeat. One. Two. Three. The liquid— more of a gel, now that Lewis is touching it— is cool to the touch. Fifteen. Sixteen. Eighteen. He sinks deep. He can’t breathe. He realizes he skips a number, but he keeps counting. He’s on thirty-two now. It seems to be getting slower. Is it? Lewis can’t tell. 

 

He realizes the gel-liquid must be filling his lungs at this point. Why isn’t he choking already? Lewis should’ve paid more attention when he was talking to Lalna about this stuff. Maybe he could’ve saved himself. Too late now. 

 

What number is he on again?

 

**#2**

**NINE LIVES; NONE LEFT**

 

bang bang bang, 

goes the ceiling. 

comms wail; 

code red, code red, invasion, surrounded, screaming, moving. 

 

Ben does not believe his eyes and ears 

when they start spilling in 

everywhere. 

strange creatures. 

he thinks back; 

jungle, 

capture, 

guilt. 

he stops thinking and starts running. 

 

Lewis tries not to panic 

hands shake, but it is hard to conceal. He does not want people to see. 

deep breath 

steady the hands 

off you go 

 

Tom; 

smoking so fast he adds to the haze. 

an ecstasy of fumbling. 

he tells people where to go— 

does the job Lewis should be doing— 

but he doesn’t let anyone know that. 

 

pandemonium. 

 

bang bang bang 

goes the ceiling. 

it seems it can’t take much more. 

it crashes down on top of itself 

on top of them. 

 

success! 

they found each other. 

it is short lived. 

 

Lewis catches Ben’s eye, before Ben’s eyes close. 

devil’s sick of sin. 

and Lewis has no choice but to leave. 

he catches the shadow of death around the corner. 

 

Ben 

stuck 

underneath the concrete of the roof, the metal beams and all the rest. 

always stuck. 

obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud. 

the last thing he sees 

Lewis; 

panicked 

but Ben knows he will be alright, 

no matter what happens. 

 

agony. 

 

he sees people. 

they swim in and out of focus 

like faces in a dream you 

can’t quite remember. 

one in particular is familiar. 

an old friend. 

 

little— less— 

nothing. 

martyrdom is sweet, 

the old lie.

 

**#3**

**FARGO**

 

Did you ever try to put a broken piece of glass back together? Even if the pieces fit, you can’t make it whole again the way it was. 

 

Ben can’t help but fidget. He's worried. Snow dusts everything outside like icing sugar. Even through the grimy window, he can tell it would be beautiful otherwise. It’s hard to see beauty when everything is so scarred. Even in the distance, there’s the faint line of cinder smoke rising up over the trees, as if a candle had been extinguished and the smoke still lingers. 

 

Trees surround them on every side, rising up, creating the bars of a prison cell. Or so it feels like. Ben can’t exactly go out like the rest of them can, when he limps and walks slower than everyone else. Nothing can help the pain, either. He lost his leg a long time ago, but between infections, exterior and interior, there is enough to keep him down and out. Not enough medicine and pills to go around. 

 

He hates it. How is he supposed to help when he’s stuck here and everyone else is doing what they can? 

 

Their outpost— their shack— is in shambles. Dust and cobwebs cover the inside like snow covers the outside. A small fire crackles, enough to get the place above freezing. Not enough to catch attention. Warmth is hard to come by during these times. So is medicine, ammunition, food, good water. It’s hard to come by everything. All they can do is keep going with what they have and hope everything goes well. 

 

Wind howls through all the cracks beneath the windows and the door and the floorboards. The shack— outpost— would be nice if it weren’t so badly out of shape. It’s one main room, which serves as the kitchen, dining room and living room. A separate bathroom and a separate bedroom. All wood, big stag head hung above the oversized fireplace. Sofas, threadbare now, but they would have been homely at one point. Mold grows on the ceilings and there are questionable stains almost everywhere. The tap still runs, but the ‘water’ is black and definitely not water. The lights still work, though. There’s a generator somewhere, but Ben hasn’t seen it and doesn’t want to go looking for it. The wind howls, and Ben feels like howling with it. 

 

Is he really this useless? Being left here would be understandable if he was genuinely wounded or sick. But he’s just Ben. Restlessness makes him jumpy, and his hand goes to the shotgun on his lap more than once. There was an old newspaper in this place when they found it, and Ben finished the crossword in it five days ago. The boredom drives him crazy. But he sits still, watching the window and ready for anything. So he tells himself, anyway. 

 

He’s so stupid. What if they don’t come back? What would he do then? 

 

The door bangs open. The wind screams. Ben points the gun at the door, stock still, finger on trigger. 

 

Tom holds his hands up, every inch of skin covered with clothing and every inch of clothing covered in snow. “Woah, tiger,” he says, muffled through his balaclava, slowly stepping into the room. Ben sees several others over his shoulder. He lowers the gun, but only slightly. You can never be too careful. They learned the hard way. 

 

“Password,” Ben says, keeping eyes on Tom. 

 

Tom looks at him. “Chimpanzee.” 

 

Ben lowers the gun. Breathes relief so hard it comes out in a cloud. “You good?” He asks, leaving the shotgun down and sitting back. 

 

Tom files in, pulling off his balaclava and his gloves. The others file in behind him. Lewis pulls up last. They all look tired, and someone cut themselves and is bleeding, but other than that everyone is fine. Tom stands by the tiny fire and shakes the snow off his shoulders. It melts near the fire. “All good,” Tom replies, his back to Tom, “but we didn’t get any food. No sign of anything out there.” 

 

“Intel?” Ben can’t help the crease in his brow. No food is bad. Especially when they’re running low on just about everything. There’s a big weight off his shoulders, knowing everyone is back safe. Ben never realizes how afraid he is when they leave. 

 

Tom turns around. “Well, the enemy base is still where it was last time. There’s no movement outside it, though. If we don’t do something soon, we’re going to die here.” 

 

Lewis finds them from across the room. He looks pale. Like the snow. He nods at Ben, and Ben nods back. Behind him, Ross stitches up the person bleeding. Ben can’t see who it is from where he sits. 

 

Ben thinks back. All the way back. When Lewis was commander and things were simpler. It started when XCOM was shut down, out of the blue. From there it became clear that aliens had infiltrated many high-up positions in the Council and government. Everything started going downhill from there. 

 

Riots, protests, shootings. Dramatic changes everywhere. Lewis and some of the others forced to leave XCOM felt it was unjust to sit and watch. With that, XCOM became a secret underground organization. Their goal? Stop the invasion. Try to get things back to how they were before. Easier said than done, so they discovered. 

 

It was fine in the beginning. It was patriotic. Supplies were plentiful and once they had a base of operations, they were flying. But they were not flying when the base was attacked and consequently destroyed. They were not flying when half their numbers were imprisoned. They were also not flying when they were reduced to hiding in the wilderness, away from prying eyes, in the dead of winter. 

 

Dead of winter is right. If they don’t go soon, do something soon, they won’t be alive to tell the tale. 

 

Now, XCOM is a dirty word. Anyone even barely associated with it is imprisoned or killed. There are many rebel organizations, but XCOM used to be so proud, so vigilant. Now they are nothing but ragtag dreamers and ragtag romantics. They’ve had a few new members, but trust is another thing that’s hard to come by. Anyone could be a spy, alien or not. Anyone could be looking to bring them down from the inside. They can take no risks. One wrong move and they’re all dead. 

 

“Okay?” Lewis asks, eyeing up Ben, pressing a hand to his shoulder as he walks by. 

 

It catches Ben off guard, and he nods, rubbing his hands together to tease some warmth back into them. Lewis disappears as quickly as he appeared in the first place. Everyone is busy as they settle in, business done for today, and tomorrow to plan for. 

 

Lewis is back, then, moving the cast-aside shotgun so he can sit down next to Ben. Lewis pops a brown square in his mouth, handing another square to Ben. 

 

He looks at it in his hand, his mind numb from the cold. “Chocolate?” He asks, staring down at it. 

 

Lewis hums, munching away. 

 

“I thought we had none left. I thought we ran out ages ago.” Ben murmurs. His mouth has a hard time forming the words. 

 

Lewis bumps their shoulders. “I saved some. Commander’s stash. My little secret.” 

 

Ben eats the chocolate. “Our secret,” he says.

 

**#4**

**CONEY ISLAND FAIR**

 

Irresponsible 

leader. Made to step down. He 

has rainstorm inside him — 

 

Dreams, crushed. Hopes, dashed. "Please 

don't leave," says them. "No choice." he 

says. Full of 'if only’s' — 

 

"If i was a fool, 

I would love you," — "Not worth 

the heart ache." — goodbye.

 

**#5**

**EVERYONE IS A VAMPIRE?**

 

Lewis opens the door to the basement store room to find an assortment of chumps and higher-level brass sucking blood out of a transfusion bag. Using a straw, too, no less. 

 

“What the fuck,” he says. 

 

At least that explains the lingering smell of blood around the place. And the complaints about garlic bread. No wonder the med bay was looking for more supplies. And that’s why everyone looks so pale lately! 

 

Lewis closes the door.

 

**#6**

**SO, YOU WANT TO JOIN XCOM**

 

Pyrion sits in his office, leaning back in his chair as he slowly reads through the stack of files on his desk. The daffodils on his desk, a gift from his wife, slowly start weeping. Their petals fall away when moved too much. As if his desk needs any more litter— between the files, the cigarette butts and the lost sheets of paper, it’s crowded enough already. 

 

Lewis Brindley. Their latest candidate. His file is... almost extensive. Almost. He’s been through a lot. Pyrion wonders. Should they let sleeping dogs lie? Leave Brindley and pick someone else? After all, bringing him in a position as high-stakes as commander... they could be asking for trouble. 

 

On the other hand, maybe Brindley will be astounding. Blow everything out of the water. End the alien invasion within weeks. 

 

Pyrion can’t help but smile, even through the pounding headache. They have such a mixed bag of applicants. You can never tell with these people. Will they be amazing or not? They’d almost be better off just pickiing a name from a hat. At least that way there’s an equal chance. 

 

Back to Brindley. The therapist marked his as unstable when he was discharged. Should that be worrying? Then again, who wouldn’t be unstable after going through all of that? 

 

Pyrion reads the file again, but he actually focuses and gets the words into his head. Brindley’s favourite colour is blue... his favourite football team... dream job... So much for focus. He can’t concentrate, and he looks at the pile of ‘good’ candidate files. It is small. The ‘bad’ candidate pile, which is in the rubbish bin, is overflowing. Pyrion takes a deep breath. 

 

Brindley seems like— like what? Pyrion can’t put his finger on it. But he doesn’t like things he doesn’t understand. He needs to make a decision. 

 

He shrugs. Brindley is nothing special. Into the trash can goes his file.

 

**#7**

**LEADBELLY**

 

“Well, at least I’ll have good company in hell,” Tom says, chuckling through the pain and the blood covering his clothes. 

 

Lewis holds onto his side, where the blood is pouring out. Every breath is a gasp. His sweat mixes, mingling, turning red. “Trust you to make this into a joke,” he manages to say. He can’t see through the tears. 

 

Ben lets out a low scream next to them. The sound gets lost within the cacophony as the building falls down around them, and the screams of the sinners as they die. “Us and the devil makes four.” How he can even speak, Tom doesn’t know. 

 

The base had been invaded, but they’d been too slow to realize and they were swarmed before they could do anything. Ben got crushed, and Lewis got shot. When the aliens realized there was no point to their invasion because the two of their most-wanted were close to death, they razed the place to the ground. Of course, Tom got hurt trying to save the other two. The three of them lie together, in their blood and sweat and vomit and mess, on the edge of death. 

 

“This is such a fucking— fitting death,” Lewis breathes, voice shaking. He can’t stop the blood, no matter how hard he tries. You’d think, since he was shot by a plasma gun, that it wouldn’t be painful. Plasma is in blood, after all. Wouldn’t it just help him feel better? He must ask Ben. He tries to, but somewhere all his wires get crossed and his mouth won’t make the words right. It comes out as a mangled groan, but Lewis doesn’t mind because a mangled groan sums up how he feels right now anyway. 

 

He leans his forehead against the floor, next to Tom’s forearm. He’s going to die. He knows it. He can feel it. After all, he is currently sitting in all the blood that should be inside his body. 

 

Tom gasps. He doesn’t even know what’s wrong with him. Did he get shot? He can’t remember. It feels like he broke his leg or something. “How so?” He asks, trying to control his breathing and failing. It’s short and coming too fast and he just can’t get that air into his lungs. 

 

“I— don’t know. But if we... were— were going to die—” 

 

Ben trembles. “We’d die like this,” he says. Even when they’re about to die, he’s finishing Lewis’ sentences. He moves his head, barely, so he can look the others in the eye. He looks pale. 

 

Tom smiles. He can feel the sticky wetness all around him. “I miss you guys already.”

 

**#8**

**FAIRYTALE**

 

“Can you pass me that cloth?” Tom says, elbows deep in suds as he washes the dishes. Armed with his scrubber and dish soap, nothing can stop him. 

 

Ben smiles, “I thought it was Lewis’ turn on dishes tonight?”, handing Tom the tea towel from where he stands against the counter. Their janky spice rack sits in the corner, overstocked but proud. Glasses fill the overhead cupboards. Tom, filling the space in front of the sink, of course, looks out the window at their small garden. It’s already dark outside, but it’s cozy. Tom stops scrubbing for a moment to squirt some more dish soap into the sink. 

 

“Well, someone complained so much that I volunteered just to keep them quiet,” Tom replies, giving Ben the old side-eye and cocked smile. 

 

Lewis, sitting at the kitchen table with book in hand and reading glasses on nose, scoffs. “You didn’t _have to_ volunteer,” he says, eyebrows raised. Tom turns to look at him, the classic _are you serious right now?_ look. His beard is sprinkled with grey, but even for the wrinkles, the sparkle never left Tom’s eye. Lewis turns a page of his book. “I haven’t been sleeping well, anyway.” 

 

Ben chuckles, eyes softening around the edges. “Oh, Lewis, my heart is just breaking for you,” he chides, voice jovial. However, he places a hand on Lewis’ shoulder, and despite the teasing, Lewis knows he’s being looked after. 

 

Still. Lewis used to take sleep for granted— but now he dreads it more than anything. The nightmares have returned as of late, worse than before. They started when he was young, definitely, just after that stint in the jungle when Ben was taken away. The terrors continued throughout their XCOM days, even though XCOM’s relative success and following closure. 

 

Lewis won’t say it, definitely not to the two others, but he knows why the nightmares are back. He’s worried everything is too good to be true. Lewis can feel it, deep down in the pit of his stomach, like a bad aftertaste. How can he be sure everything is real? What if it’s all just some dream he thought up to save himself from whatever horrors he’s going through in reality? 

 

It leaves Lewis tired. Back when he was commander, all those years ago, it was stress mixed with adrenaline mixed with constant responsibility that kept him going. It came to the point where Lewis knew if he stopped, he wouldn’t be able to get going again. How he even survived it, he doesn’t know to this day. Now, he doesn’t have that motivation anymore. Lives don’t hang in the balance. He doesn’t have to be a step ahead anymore. The leftover stress seeps in between the cracks, in the form of nightmares and those minutes where the anxiety crawls up his throat and starts to suffocate him. 

 

Ben and Tom have suffered too, of course. Tom still carries resent in his heart. And he won’t admit it, but there’s a longing for him to revenge his lost eye. But it rests deep down, where no one can see. And anyway. Revenge is a young man’s game. They stopped being young men the day they wrote their names on military registration forms. 

 

Ben. He spends a lot of time in their pokey tool shed, in the corner of their garden. Not everyone can shake their old habits, and Ben is still an engineer with an engineer’s brain no matter how old he is. He sits in the shed with his toolbox and takes apart old things and puts them back together. He fixed the coffee table when it broke, and he put up a bookcase in the spare bedroom so they would have a place for all their books. Lewis think Ben misses it the most. 

 

They have all led hard lives. It was even harder to leave them behind. 

 

Now, though. Lewis led a successful campaign against Arx. There was no need for XCOM anymore, since the alien offenders fled. With a flourish of war medals and a brief ceremony, everyone went their sperate ways. Tom, Ben and Lewis got a house together, away from the bustle of city life. The years pass quietly but happily. They all show their age, through grey hair and wrinkles and nightmares, but it’s okay. 

 

Pyrion Flax pops round the odd time, too, to poke at their fish tank and eat scones. He checks up on them, but sometimes he just needs to talk. It’s endearing. He lets them know how everyone else is doing, too, since he still works the same old admin job he always worked. Smith, Trott and Ross are happy, apparently, traveling the world. Last Pyrion heard, they were off backpacking in South America. Lalna disappeared almost immediately. Sips went back home and continues to be Sips. Helicopter is still in the military, having gotten some other job there. All the rest, well, they keep doing their thing, in new and old walks of life. 

 

Lewis sighs. “Stop it, you,” he says, hitting Ben away with his free hand. He takes off his reading glasses and rubs his eyes. 

 

Tom turns around to face them. “Could one of you at least dry? I’m on my own over here.” 

 

Lewis looks at Ben. Ben looks at Lewis. They have a silent argument with their eyes. Lewis sighs, standing up. He supposes it’s fair he dries, too, since he weaseled his way out of washing in the first place. Ironic. 

 

Lewis stands, grabs a tea towel and swats Tom on the ass with it. “Let’s get this over with,” he says.

 

\- 


End file.
